Courtlaw, who was sitting by the bedside, bent over him. Although Martha did not know it, she had her pistol and her daggers, and her knife. He ran back to his car, glancing only once at the man in the car. . . But it is my fault. His mind was busy with a résumé of yesterday's unusual events. ‘As for your dagger—’ She held out her hand palm up, as if she expected him to give her the weapon. When the prisoner was brought into this room, he was again questioned; but, continuing contumacious, preparations were made for inflicting the torture. Here, indeed, was a type with which he had never until now come into contact—a natural woman. Here, where every element of her surroundings was tawdry and commonplace, and before this young man of vulgar origin and appearance, it was striking.
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